Enthrall

by Vanessa Fewings

  A novel by

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  Enthrall

  Copyright © 2013 by Vanessa Fewings

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.

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  “Pain is the root of knowledge.”

  Simone Weil, (1910-1943) French Philosopher

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  I NEEDED THIS.

  More than anything.

  On the other side of that long, dark wooden table sat three beautiful women, all unimpressed with the answers I’d given so far. I was blowing this interview.

  And sabotaging my future.

  Enthrall, L.A.’s most exclusive BDSM club, was hiring a new secretary and by the look of things I wasn’t going to be her, and that unbelievably high salary wasn’t going to be mine. This moment wasn’t about greed, but survival. I was done with eating Ramen noodles, living in a studio, and riding my bicycle around the city’s streets to save on gas. Working two jobs was grueling. Monday through Friday I was a salesperson at Willem’s art supply store in West Hollywood, where many of the city’s creative wannabes hung out, dreaming of making it big. On the weekends, I worked as a server at the Cheesecake Factory. Both jobs I enjoyed, but never having a day off was starting to take a toll.

  This interview felt like a lifeline, though somehow my hands were slipping down the rope toward failure.

  Two of the women on the panel hadn’t even introduced themselves, which I found odd and made this even more awkward. Tara, my best friend’s girlfriend, could have warned me about this. Having been their previous secretary for years, she was probably used to all this intensity and thought nothing of this sexual tension that even oozed from the designer red brick walls.

  Walls that were closing in around me.

  The woman on the right had a Scottish accent and was somewhere in her forties. She wore an expensive Chanel suit and designer spectacles that she peered through to text away on her BlackBerry. The stunning raven-haired woman on the other side, with her model good-looks and head-to-toe black leather, contradicted her colleague’s conservative attire. At least the raven-haired interviewer was kind enough to throw me the occasional smile.

  “Your resume is very limited,” said Mistress Scarlet, the stern brunette in the middle, as she scanned the file.

  I questioned why I continued to put myself through this. Five minutes ago, while in the waiting room, one of the other interviewees had burst out of here and given me the thumbs up.

  “It went great!” she’d told me, her cleavage doing a happy dance as she sashayed down the hallway.

  My black skirt and white blouse felt wrong on so many levels. I’d gone for serious, studious even, trying to look professional. They must have been looking for a sophisticated type, an employee who would easily mingle in. I sat up straighter, unwilling to admit defeat just yet.

  The hardwood floors, dim lighting, and low hanging black and white prints of city life gave off an east coast feel, exuding swanky. If this was all put together to intimidate, it succeeded.

  “Why do you want to work here?” said Ms. BlackBerry obsessed.

  “Well--” I gestured to make my point. “I truly believe this open-minded environment and diverse clientele will help me to grow as a person.”

  Mistress Scarlet looked amused. “So it’s not the salary?”

  “The salary is generous,” I said, saving my humiliation for later when I’d drown my sorrows with a bottle of wine.

  I blushed in response to their fixed gazes. I could swear they saw right through me, catching me wilt with each failure to deliver the answers they seemed to want.

  “Where are you from?” said Mistress Scarlet.

  “Charlotte,” I said.

  “Bet you don’t miss the humidity,” said raven-haired.

  “No.”

  “You’re very young,” she said.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Mistress Scarlet looked tense. “What do you know about what we do here?”

  “You fulfill the exotic needs of special clients.” I prided myself on side-stepping that one.

  “Please answer the question,” said Ms. BlackBerry while texting.

  I waited for her to push send. “This is a private club.”

  Mistress Scarlet’s mouth twisted in a half-formed smile.

  “S and M,” I said.

  Mistress Scarlet was giving me a taste of how she made her client’s feel.

  “Sadism and masochism?” I made it a question.

  “Pleasure and pain,” said BlackBerry user. “What does your mom think of you working here?”

  Understandably I’d not gotten asked that when I’d been interviewed for Stella Willem’s art store. “She died years ago. I have a step-mom.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She rested her cell on the table. “Does your step-mom know you’re here?”

  “Yes, of course,” I lied.

  Mistress Scarlet steepled her fingers. “We pride ourselves on hearing secrets and keeping them. This is more than a club. It’s a society for well-balanced adults who enjoy exploring their predilections in a safe and nurturing environment.”

  “I have to be honest,” said Ms. BlackBerry. “Which we pride ourselves on here, you don’t seem comfortable with your sexuality.”

  I had no answer for that.

  Mistress Scarlet continued, “We can’t have the receptionist blushing every time a client comes in.”

  “What Mistress Scarlet is saying,” added Ms. BlackBerry, “is we have clients visit from all over the world. Exclusive members. Their contentment is our priority.”

  “My best friend’s gay,” I said. “I’m open minded. We shared a dorm.”

  “Are you gay?” said Ms. BlackBerry.

  I wriggled uncomfortably. Weren’t there rules in interviews?

  Mistress Scarlet threw her colleague a look before nodding at me. “Mia?”

  “No,” I said, blushing.

  Raven-haired added, “Mia, we don’t abide by rules that you find in other places of employment. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in that kind of job? We applaud your visit here today. We do.”

  My stunned
silence lingered.

  Mistress Scarlet leaned forward. “Self-control, tact, maturity, wisdom, these are all traits we need in our staff.”

  The room fell quiet.

  “I’ve always been good at putting people at ease,” I said softly.

  A telephone rang from somewhere down the hallway, breaking the silence but not touching the tension.

  “What we need,” said Mistress Scarlet, “is a receptionist to facilitate appointments. Sign in our clients. It’s an important job. We need an individual who can respect our member’s privacy and make them feel welcome. As the senior dominant’s secretary, you’ll be expected to possess excellent communication and organizational skills.”

  “I have that,” I said.

  Raven-haired raised her chin. “Well that’s good.”

  There came another awkward silence.

  “Thank you for coming in,” said Mistress Scarlet.

  I rose and reached into my handbag. “Here are my....um...Victoria’s Secret.” I placed my lacey underwear on the table before Mistress Scarlet.

  Cheeks burning, I backed away and headed for the door.

  “Wait a moment, please,” said raven-haired, rising to her feet and making her way around the table.

  I caught sight of her black leather thigh-high boots. The spiked heels appeared deadly. Elegantly, she closed in. This striking woman was the first dominatrix I’d ever met. She oozed a sexual confidence and her musky perfume of fresh cut flowers and amber wafted over me; the heady scent of Dior’s Poison. Yet strangely enough there was something comforting about her. The sense that she could handle pretty much anything. Or anyone.

  “What did Tara tell you exactly?” She straightened my collar, which must have been sticking up the entire time.

  I glanced over at Mistress Scarlet and Ms. BlackBerry, while fumbling to get my collar under control. “Tara mentioned you’d see this as a gesture of my seriousness to...”

  “Go on?” she purred the words like a panther, pretty to look at but ready to pounce; a dominatrix’s allure.

  “Tara told me it got her the job.”

  She leaned in closer. “Tara took them off in front of us.”

  I wondered why Tara had left that out.

  She gestured to my skirt. “You have panty lines.”

  My gaze found the door and I held back a cringe. I’d merely popped into the mall on my way here and picked up a brand new thong and ripped off the tag. Though I’d never have gone pantyless no matter how much I needed this job. I wasn’t ready for anything like that.

  These women specialized in the darker side of sex. If I wanted to work here I’d have to prove I could handle whatever they threw at me. Studying the faces of my female jury, I’d clearly failed to convince them I could live on the edge. Instead, I balanced precariously on it, ready to fall from the dizzying heights of lasting embarrassment and land squarely on my ass.

  “I’m willing to learn.” I ran my hand through my hair, conceding it was over. “I want to learn.”

  Panther peered under her long black lashes at me.

  “You never told me your name?” I said.

  “Charlotte.”

  “I’m from Charlotte.”

  “You told us.”

  Yes, I had, and now I’d gone and embarrassed myself all over again.

  “Call me Lotte,” she said.

  There was a ping on Ms. BlackBerry’s BlackBerry and she peered up. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Lotte lingered close, as though testing my personal boundary. “I’ll show you out.”

  We made our way down a long hallway. The artwork was stunning; dark gothic paintings lined the walls on both sides and I wished there was more time to look at them. Whatever hung in the air in that room had taken on a life of its own. Perhaps it had been the combination of their richly textured perfumes, the kind I could never afford, mingling with the warrior confidence of these women.

  I wondered how they’d all ended up here. What had driven them to this lifestyle choice of black leather and getting up to goodness knows what in dark, sexually charged dungeons. The kind they apparently had here on the lowest level. There was something so wicked about this whole punishment and pleasure thing, and I was fascinated by what really went on.

  After we went out another door, back the way I’d come, we headed toward the elevator. Lotte punched the down button to call the lift. Upon her neck twinkled the largest diamond I’d ever seen.

  She twirled her fingers around the delicate chain. “From a very naughty client.”

  My eyebrows rose before I could stop them. “What did you do before this?”

  “I was a pharmacist.”

  “This pays better?”

  Lotte burned a look through me. “I don’t do this for the money.” Her gaze drifted over to the other elevator. The one right behind the secretary’s desk. “I’m a healer.”

  “Where does that lead?”

  “That’s where we take our clients,” she said huskily.

  My spine tingled with anticipation. I discreetly took in her attire. Those thigh high boots and her fitted leather corset that creaked seductively when she moved; the way her pale cleavage rose above the delicate lace edging. The spicy scent of incense wafted through the air and music flowed out of hidden speakers; a deep, foreign chanting that was so soothing, so enticing, it made my stomach quiver. It was all so forbidden.

  Slowly, she curled a strand of my long hair around her fingertip. “Are you a natural blonde?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beautiful,” she said. “You look like you’ve stepped right out of a William-Adolphe Bouguereau.”

  “Um…”

  “A painter.” She smiled softly. “He knew how to portray the soul of a woman. He’d have perfectly captured your delicate frame, those deep blue eyes and your rosebud lips.” She leaned in closer. “Only the old masters could have painted your innocence.”

  An awkwardness followed.

  After stepping into the lift, I held my breath until the doors closed. Mistress Lotte oozed a sensuality I’d only ever read about. Those last few minutes left my head spinning, as if I awoke from a dream I took in the lift. It looked expensive with its full length mirrors, plush carpet, and state-of-the-art buttons. I glanced around for a camera but couldn’t see one.

  My Mini-Cooper was parked between a silver BMW and black Jaguar. I moaned when I saw oil trailing from beneath my car, staining the concrete. I hoped my Mini would at least start and I’d not bring unwanted attention by having to rev the engine to get it going.

  Lingering for a few minutes in the fresh air, I took in all that grandness. This Pacific Palisades club even intimidated from the outside with its chic brickwork design, an ornate facade rising up as a majestic statement of privilege. Had I really believed a girl like me could ever get to work in such an elegant place like Enthrall?

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  A NEW DEGREE OF HUMILIATION had found me.

  Apparently I’d discovered original ways to embarrass myself. I sat at my studio apartment kitchen counter, replaying the hellish interview over and over.

  I buried my face in my hands.

  That dream of a one bedroom apartment would have to wait. When I’d first moved into this studio it had felt like a palace with more space then I’d ever had to myself. Though now I’d outgrown it, and all this secondhand furniture made me feel like a failure. That old couch in the corner with its strategically positioned pillows to hide the stains left by its previous owner. That rickety old fridge that woke me up each night as it shuddered away, trying to spit out cubes of ice from its freezer long broken.

  This glass of Sauvignon Blanc did nothing to soothe my disappointment. My anger at myself for blowing such a great opportunity wouldn’t let up. The idea I’d not prepared properly and had allowed the chance to earn some real money to slip through my fingers brought waves of regret.

  Had I really handed over a pair of underwear during an interview?
Placed those lacey Victoria’s Secret before Mistress Scarlet as a hint I wasn’t wearing any? What were they meant to do with them anyway?

  Tara had let me down in the worst kind of way and I tried to wrap my head around why she’d want to sabotage me. She’d dated Bailey, my best friend, for over a year now and I’d always liked her, very often going out with them on the weekends and never feeling like a third wheel. Not once had Tara shown any sign of jealousy, even though Bailey and I had a long history of friendship, having grown up together in Charlotte. Tara and Bailey’s relationship had been a little strained lately but that had nothing to do with me. Tara had been threatening to fly off to Australia to join her brother who lived there. I’d hated seeing how much stress this caused Bailey, even though all she wanted was for Tara to be happy.

  Bailey’s positive reaction to me applying for this new job had been surprising considering how old fashioned she was, but she’d seen every bit of bad luck that had come my way. She knew firsthand how shitty life had been for me.

  Was Tara’s jealousy rearing its ugly head for the first time? I’d gone into that interview unprepared, looking overly innocent, all blonde curls and caught in the headlight eyes.

  Tara knew how much I needed this money, how important it was for me to get my life back on track and ease up on drowning. My step-mother, Lorraine, had more medical bills piling up and I’d promised to take care of them. Lift some of that stress she was under. Still, Lorraine was in remission now due to all that chemo and that was an answered prayer. Having taken me in after my dad died, Lorraine had saved me from life on the streets, and now it was my turn to save her.

  I sighed deeply, realizing I’d been so close to pulling it off.

  That last look Mistress Lotte had given me still haunted, and coming from a dominatrix only made it worse. Those glares of disapproval from the other two women achieved their desired effect, leaving me feeling insignificant. More disturbing still, my banal answers failed to let them see my upbeat personality, my joie de vive attitude, and my ability to approach everything with an open heart and mind. I’d looked like a scared schoolgirl. I’d blown the whole thing.

  Reverently, I picked up the small rectangle plastic sleeve containing the mint condition 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card. I’d just retrieved it from that metal box I kept hidden in the cupboard. I got it out for moments like this. A lifeline to my past and I found it comforting to look at. It reminded me of my father. I’d managed to salvage it from a footlocker he had left after he died. His widow, Lorraine, had sold off everything else at a Rose Bowl swap meet. We needed the money. She’d not seen me rummage through his stuff and take it out. I felt guilty as hell as it would fetch around ten thousand dollars, maybe even more, which was a small fortune to me. I’d gotten the card valued once when hunger had pushed me to it, but when it came to letting it go I’d not been able to part with it. This Mickey Mantle card was my only reminder of him.